A Most Peculiar Love Story
by Disco Jesus
Summary: or Dear God... I'm in love with my Godfather.Jenn Weasley has troubles enough in her life, what with famous parents and a mother for a professor.What she does not need is a silly crush.But the heart does as it wishes, and now Jenn is dead set on wooing...
1. Prolouge

Howdy, reader. I hope you enjoy my slightly odd tale of love despite age difference. Yes, I thought it was a bit creepy too. Anyhoo, I need a disclaimer, so here it is: **I do not in any way, shape, or form own the right to Harry Potter  
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There. Enjoy.**  
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**Prologue **

Hello, my name is Jennifer Anne Weasley.

Yes, I'm _that _Jennifer Weasley. I am the daughter of Ron and Hermione Weasley, the heroes of the Voldermort's Second Coming, for those of you who have lived in a cave for the past 17 years.

However, I am not writing this to tell you of my over-publicized life (there is something really wrong with you childhood when you discover that the Daily Prophet managed to get pictures of you speaking your first words, and that it was through the Prophet's story that your parents found out what your first word was), but rather, to tell you something: I am in love with my godfather, and I intend to make him fall in love with me.

Yes, _that _godfather. One time savior turned on-the-run convict Harold James Potter, my godfather and future husband. I simply haven't told him the husband part yet.

Now, you might be saying to yourself, this sounds like a great idea for a mildly humorous story full of off-color jokes about the fact that Harry knows my parents, and that there is an age difference between us. Perhaps there can be a matchmaking third character thrown in, who lusts after an extremely beautiful but unobtainable person. Eventually, this third character ends up falling for someone who they meet while trying to match Harry and I, and said third character makes the person who they once lusted after(the person, is, of course, an ass) look like an idiot.

What the hell do you think this is? Something written by some lonely guy with no life, posted on a muggle website for people who somehow know of Harry's adventures?

Ugh, I've gotten off topic. I don't do it much, but I mean... sometimes, it seems a little silly, even to me. Normally, when a teenager lusts after someone older, the person is a male.

But normally, that person is not Harry Potter. The man defines the word 'sexy'. He's tall enough to sweep you up off your feet into a hug(and Harry gives the kind of hugs that you just melt into), but short enough so that you don't get a stone neck looking at his face. And believe me, that's a face you could stare at forever. His wild, untamed locks give him a roguish air, his toothy grin is a perfect compliment to his wry sense of humor, and his green eyes... well, they're just... _so bloody beautiful_. Harry's eyes are the kind that trap people for all eternity with their haunting beauty. Eyes that show such kindness, and yet so much damage. Eyes that a girl could get used to waking up to...

He's more than just a pretty face. He has a lean, toned torso, tight calves, and an incredible butt. A very incredible butt. A butt that drives me wild just thinking about that. No man should be allowed to have a butt that nice…

Now, I'm sure you're wondering how I've seen so much of him, Harry being an escaped convict and all. Or, you may still be caught up on the fact that Harry is a convict (honestly, who are you? Were you born yesterday? It's like you've missed the past 20 or so years).

Well, to refresh your memory, Harry is on the run for escaping Azkaban, which he was thrown in for, "using some of the darkest and vilest curses imaginable to administer vigilante justice." Of course, that explanation is bullocks.

Maybe I should explain. You see, Harry had just completed all seven years of schooling at Hogwarts (with quite good marks to boot). It was the last day before students went home, so, of course, Voldermort decided that this was the perfect time for a climactic final battle. Always loved dramatic endings, that Voldermort.

The details of the final battle are well documented- well, at least the few details the historians deemed important. From what I've heard from Uncle Neville, most of it was basically chaos. The only thing remotely orderly (and the thing the history books choose to remember), is the duel between Voldermort and Harry. It's far too long to recount all the details, so instead I'll focus on the important part- the end. An end which has baffled the Wizarding World's greatest minds for years.

A lull had occurred in the duel, as Mum had been hit with a cutting hex, and Harry had run her to the medic, leaving Dumbledore to battle Voldermort. As Harry returned, Voldermort thought that now was the time for his brilliant (and here I use that word loosely) plan to defeat Harry Potter. First, Albus Dumbledore's body crumpled to the ground, devoid of life after Voldermort hit him with an Avada Kedava. Minerva McGonagal was next to fall, dragged forward by Bealtrix Lestrange, as Harry watched helplessly, for he was being held back by a protective magical shield. Cho Chang, Harry's then girlfriend, also saw a flash of green as her last sight upon this Earth. Reubus Hagrid, Harry's first friend and the gentelest giant ever to live, was also killed by the monster who the Death Eaters called "Master". Finally, Remus Lupin was the last dragged forward. Voldermort turned, prepared to kill the werewolf. However, it was at that moment, that Peter Pettigrew remembered what he was: a Marauder. He stood in front of Voldermort, telling the monster that if he was going to kill Remus, he'd have to go through him first. Two quick flashes later, the final two Marauders lay dead- both of them finding redemption for there cursed existences in the end. He then calmly lowered the shield, and asked Harry if he would like to finish their little duel.

Volermort had thought this would break Harry. I sometimes wonder how such an absolute moron became the most feared Dark Lord in centuries. Seeing those deaths did not break Harry, no, nothing of the sort. It royally pissed him off.

Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. And history has shown that one does not piss off extremely powerful wizards if one wishes to keep their head attached to their body. Voldermort had obviously not learned from history, and was therefore doomed to repeat it.

No one knows precisely what curse Harry used on Voldermort. The Department of Mysteries has been working on it for twenty years now, and they still haven't a clue. Onlookers have reported the curse as a "great golden light, which seemed to be in the shape of a phoenix, that enveloped Voldermort, obliterating him mind, body, and soul". No one knows the curse, but Harry. And, has he likes to tell me, "a good magician never reveals his tricks."

Of course, it's not the death of Voldermort that Harry was charged for. That would have never flown with the public. Rather, it was what Harry did after Voldermort's death that landed him in Azkaban.

After Voldermort's death, everyone celebrated. Wizards got drunk, witches got high, and a great many children were conceived in a very short period of time.

Everyone but Harry. I guess it shouldn't have been surprising really… he had just seen all those he loved get killed. However, instead of getting mad, Harry decided to get even.

For the next two years, no one heard from Harry Potter. However, suddenly, there were many whispers in the Wizarding Underground- rumors of a shadow, a wraith who hunted Dark Wizards mercilessly. It was said that once he caught scent of you, you started living on borrowed time. They began to call him the Dark Phoenix- for the tattoo that he would imprint on the forehead of each one of his victims.

The Aurors didn't know what to make of it- bodies of former Death Eaters and other such bastards were piling up, and no one had made any claim to the sizeable bounties on many of those said wizard's heads(and those that had were proven to be frauds). The slayings were brutal, primal, seemingly in fits of rage, often times done with whatever objects were lying around at the time. However, the one constant was the tattoo magically imprinted on the dark wizard's foreheads. The profilers had a field day with that, but none of their ideas panned out.

No one could make heads or tails of it.

Until someone got lucky. Someone who really didn't deserve it, but someone none the less: Benjamin Harrison. Yes, _that _Benjamin Harrison. Current Head Auror, decorated veteran of Voldermort's Second Coming, and favorite to become the next Minister of Magic. Of course, the titles don't tell the whole story (they never do). What they fail to mention is that Benjamin is an annoying, corrupt, arrogant prat who'd sell his own mother if it gave him some power.

Sorry… I just don't like gits who make my future husbands life more miserable than it already has been. However, you aren't reading this to hear about what an ass Harrison is. You're reading this to find out how he found Harry.

Well, as I've said, Harrison got lucky. I don't think lucky is even the word to describe it. Lucky is when you find a galleon on the street, or when a person trips into a celebrity who falls madly in love with them. Harrison got "sell your soul to the devil" kind of lucky.

Harrison had fought in the war, but had only seen active combat once or twice.Thus, once the war was over, his life didn't change much. Harrison went right back to walking his beat along Atlantean alley, a place where one was as likely to see a crime committed as they were to see Mum attend a book burning. To forget the fact that his job was basically the Wizarding World's equivalent of a mall's rent-a-cop, Harrison often went hit the pubs at night.

It was on one such night that fate did him a favor. Harrison had just left the Dragon's Beard after hitting on a women who had told him in no uncertain just how many curses there were that could remove a man's... _equipment._ Harrison had practically run out into the street. Now, after imbibing a great amount of alcohol, running is the last thing a person wants to, or should, do. Thus, Benjamin had gotten sick, and looked for an alleyway to empty the contents of his stomach.

Now, normally, he probably would have gone into the closest one, which was the side alley where the Dragon's Beard kept their dumpster. However, as luck would have it, an owl had suddenly fallen dead while flying over that dumpster earlier that day, and the alley smelled worse than a boy's quidich locker room. This, in turn, caused Harrison to become sicker, and he ran off blindly to another alley. Now, there are many, many small, dead end side streets that branch off Alantean Alley, and any one of them is suitable for vomiting on the street(as to how I know this... well, it's a long story, and Mum would kill me if she found out).

The alley that Harrison ended up running into ended up containing- you guessed it-

Drum roll please...

Ain't I a stinker?

Yes, you did guess it. The alley contained a homeless bum who proceeded to beat up Harrison and steal his wallet.

I can't believe you fell for that! It contained my bloody Godfather(who, luckily for Harrison, was unconscious at the time), who else? Of course, Harrison only realized after he expelled the contents of his stomach barely five feet away.

Now, on noticing a man who had been gone for two years, and most thought dead, other men, especially after Firewhiskey, may have reacted differently. He may have panicked, or sworn off booze, or wondered if someone had slipped something in his drink, and if that was the case then he might here Alastor Moody's voice bellowing in his ear "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

However, as much I loathe Harrison, I begrudgingly admit that he is not like other men. He is cunning and far too clever, and has the ability to keep his head in strange situations. And the situation that night would most definitely qualify as strange.

Now, if this were a story some weirdo fan of Harry's were writing, I think you know what would happen after this: Harrison would take Harry back to his flat, and nurse a reluctant Harry back to health. Harry would be damaged and reluctant but noble, Harrison would be snide and sarcastic but decent underneath it all, and would also be rather funny. In time, Harry and Harrison would fall madly in love and be bound in a ceremony by Dumbledore, or if he's dead, then the Minister of Magic (who in this alternate reality would be Arthur Weasley). Then, after the honeymoon, Harry would turn out to be pregnant, guaranteeing at least another ten or eleven chapters of writing about Harry's pregnancy.

God, why do some people have an obsession with my godfather getting knocked up by another bloke?

That would _never_ happen. For one thing, Harry's not gay. At least to my knowledge. Then again, I'm not sure if Harry's much of anything. It seems that the man has gone 20 years without a significant other, and without getting... well, you know... _shagged_(if American teen comedies are right, then Harry should have gone insane by now).

Another reason that would never happen is that Harrison is ambitious. And not in the good, Slytherin-with-a-heart way either. I wonder what will happen when the bugger finally kicks the bucket: Heaven won't want him, and Hell will be afraid that he'll take over.

Oh... bloody. It seems I've digressed. Sorry. You probably want me to get back to my story about how Harry ended up a convict, and my godfather, and how I fell in love with him.

Okay, well, here's what actually happened when Harrison found Harry, asleep in an alleyway: He decided to take Harry in, after, of course, placing a sleeping spell on the Man-Who-Lived. Now, the only problem is that, in the Wizarding, as opposed to the Muggle world, to put someone in a holding cell, even overnight, they have to be charged with at least something. Now, here's where Harrison once again demonstrated the ability to think reasonably under the effects of alcohol.

Now, you see, Harry hadn't been really active in the Wizarding World for two years. He hadn't accessed his account, hadn't gone to a shop, hadn't gotten any mail. And, you see, he was over 17. What does a rich person have to pay once they've reached the age of majority? That's right, taxes, the other constant in life along with death. And what, by not receiving any mail, hadn't Harry payed for two years? Taxes. And what can you get charged with if you don't pay your taxes? That's right: After two years of being essentially a ghost and completely untraceable, simple tax evasion brought Harry Potter down.

After Harrison had deposited Harry in the holding cell, he went home to sober up. And the gears of fate were set in motion.

It is standard practice for reporters, especially trashy gossip columnists, to get stories by thumbing through the arrest log. Therefore, a rather shocked Cornelius Fudge (who had remained in power, though it is generally thought that he did so at the expense of his soul. And maybe a few virgin sacrifices) had a quill shoved in his face at 6 AM the next morning, and was asked, why, exactly, the man who defeated Voldermort was in jail.

Fudge, who had no clue why the hell Harry was in jail, managed to get past reporters to get down to the station in which Harry was imprisoned.

It was at this point that he learned that, after a little bit of "persuasion" by the aurors, Harry had confessed to being the Dark Phoneix. And Fudge got an idea.

The difference between politicians and crooks is that crooks are honest about what they do. And no one gave a better example of that bit of wisdom than Cornelius Fudge, right after he heard that Harry confessed to being the Dark Phoneix. For immediately, he went to his office, and began to spin a tale of violence and darkness for the reporters that had gathered there, never mind that all of those killed had committed heinous crimes, and most had bounties on their heads. Fudge told of how Harry Potter had turned dark before the final battle, and had eliminated Voldermort to get rid of the competition for the title of Dark Lord. He had been killing Death Eaters and other dark wizards as a show of power, and to eliminate all those loyal to the old regime. Fudge also said that he would be pursuing Harry Potter to the fullest extent of the law.

And somehow, the press bought it. All the papers ran stories about the evil, horrid Harry Potter on the front page the next day. Well, every paper except one.

The Quibler didn't agree with the general consensus. And with Luna Lovegood as the editor in chief, I suppose that it should be expected that Quibler's outlook was a bit unusual. The next day, the Quibler ran a story on how the Minister of Magic was trying to conduct the greatest misinformation campaign since Fudge's denial of Voldermort's resurrection. And with that story, the Quibler began to cement its position as the biggest competitor to the Daily Prophet in both war (where the Quibler's photography had been excellent and gut-wrenching, thanks to Luna's friend Dennis Creevy, and due to their connections to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phonies, they had given a view of the war from the trenches to the masses) and peace.

Most of the Wizarding World bought it. Harry Potter was extremely powerful, and he had never seemed particularly friendly or approachable, unlike Albus Dumbledore. Hell, he had seemed downright antisocial, never wanting to pose for pictures or talk to the press. And there was the whole parsletongue thing. People were scared of this young maverick, who had so much power and yet seemed so dark. People were jealous that he had so much potential and was so young, had things that they never would have. It was easy to turn against him, call for his death or imprisonment.

But there were others, especially those among the younger generation who knew Harry, who had been trained by Harry in DA, who knew had seen how much blood, sweat, and tears that he had put into their safety, that didn't buy the Minister's lies.

This difference began to create a great rift in the Wizarding World: Families angrily fought, as children proclaimed Harry's innocence while there elders stubbornly refused to believe in the boy who had once been there savior. Friendships were destroyed during shouting matches. This rift was most clearly seen in the ranks of the aurors, many of whom had fought and died beside Harry, which saw many prominent members (such as Nymphodora Tonks) retire in disgust.

Fudge, however, didn't care. He _had _to try Harry Potter- the boy had far too much potential influence over the British people. He hadn't used it yet, but Fudge had no doubt that one day, this boy would challenge him for the title of Minister of Magic(Fudge, obviously, did not know Harry that well, but that is besides the point). By throwing Harry in prison, Fudge thought that he had eliminated all the major threats to his power. He had done just the opposite (but really, that's a story for another time).

Unlike Sirus Black, Harry Potter did receive a trial, complete with Veritessem. However, Harry was never granted a lawyer, or the ability to speak on his own behalf. He was questioned, under Veritessem, and did say that he was guilty of killing all of those dark wizards. Of course, the prosecution never asked for motive, and instead concluded that Harry had turned Dark and had killed to eliminate potential threats.

Now, before the war, Harry may have been acquitted by the Wizegmont. Members like Madame Bones would have seen Minister Fudge's ploy for what it was, and would have destroyed the prosecution's arguments, and found Harry not guilty, or at least seen the deaths as justified. However, many of the more prominent Wizegmont had been killed during the war, and in the postwar euphoria, no one was willing or sober enough to scrutinize the replacements that Fudge chose. Consequently, most of those replacements were blindly loyal to the Minister.

Therefore, Harry Potter was convicted on February 2nd, 1999 on roughly thirty-five counts of murder, and sentenced to serve a life sentence in the prison of Azkaban, which had just returned to being guarded by Dementors(now that the war was over and Voldermort gone, they had slunk back to the Wizarding World).

Meanwhile, during all of this, my parents were in the process of getting together, marrying, and having a baby.

They had gotten together during sixth year, when Harry had shoved them in a room and not let them out until they stopped, "...being such idiotic gits and see that you love each other." They had emerged, several hours later, with rather ruffled clothes and matching grins. Now, Mum and Dad have both tried to tell me what exactly went on in there, but do you really want to hear about your parents having... doing _those things_? It's disgusting! Absolutely revolting! It's just so... ewwwwwwww... Not something I want to think about, thank you very much! Of course, they still insist it was totally innocent, but really, who are they kidding?

That was midway through sixth year. They continued dating all through that year, and over the summer ("Most disgusting summer of my life. Couldn't turn my back without running into my brother snogging," according to Aunt Ginny). As the war intensified during their seventh year, so did their relationship. They found comfort in each other, each one being the light that could chase away the others darkness. Dad often credits Mum with keeping him sane during that year. Mum replies that if it weren't for Dad, she would have worked herself to death. After that, they tend to have a long, romantic snog... Consequently, I absolutely dread having any kind of talk with Mum and Dad about the war... or sanity for that matter.

In the final battle, both Mum and Dad fought nobly by Harry's side (for most of it anyway), until they were drawn away by Death Eaters- Dad by Marcus Flint, and Mum by Lucious Malfoy. Although Dad made it out of his duel unscathed, the case was not the same for Mum. Yes, she was able to defeat Lucious Malfoy. But not before he had managed to hit her with a Bone Obliterating Curse in her leg. One of the shards had hit a major artery, and she would have died right there on the battlefield if Serverus Snape hadn't found her body and, not caring about how it would affect him, ran her to the Order's healers.

Mum was out for two weeks. Two long, arduous weeks of sitting by her bedside, clasping her hand, according to Dad. Two weeks of hospital food, of doctors in white robes giving him grim looks and telling him that she would heal in her own time. Two weeks of nurses seeing my father sitting in her hospital room, holding her hand, and not saying a word, because they could see in his eyes that the terms "visiting hours" didn't apply to him.

When her eyes finally did flutter open, the sight she saw was a very haggard Ron Weasley, his clothes ruffled, a scruffy patchwork beard on his face, sleeping in chair. He awakened to the sound of her voice making some sarcastic joke at her expense. And, while in ruffled clothes and having not washed in weeks, on the spot proposed to my Mum, who was clad in hospital clothes and was forced to go into a bedpan. It's romantic in a disgusting kind of way.

Apparently, while watching Mum lay there, Dad had realized just how fragile and short life really was. "And I didn't want to spend another day of it without your Mum." It's so sweet... and at the same time, it's pretty sappy(and I'm a girl and I think that. Imagine if I was a boy...).

They were heartbroken over Harry's disappearance (they were of the few who didn't believe that he was dead), but thought it was for the best. After all, Harry had always despised his fame. He would live more happily in exile.

They moved on.

They married in a private little ceremony up on Stoatshead Hill, right near the Burrow. I've heard it was beautiful, with Mum apparently stealing the show in a simple, white traditional wedding dress. My parents then honeymooned for two weeks in France, where they stayed with Aunt Fleur's family.

However, all good things must end, and my parents were forced to return to the real world. Dad was accepted into the auror training program, despite horrible potions marks, and Mum began working for some private magical think tank. They lived in small flat back then, right on Merlin Avenue. Those first two years were hard, with both of them working late hours trying to scrape together enough money to get by. But they still did find enough time for a little bit of romance. Mum always gets starry eyed when she talks of how Dad used to show up when she was working late, with a box of chocolates under one arm and white roses in the other hand. God... I wish Harry would do that for me...

Of course, Harry's return affected them both greatly. Both were shocked that he had killed all of those Dark Wizards, but both also believed that Harry shouldn't be sent to Azkaban. Especially considering how much Dementors effected him. Dad stopped auror training because of it, and instead went off to play professional Quiditch. He was a pretty successful keeper for the Cannons for six seasons, until a bludger hit tore up some ligaments in his elbow too badly for him to play anymore. Don't worry- he went on to be a sports columnist for the Quibler, a job which he is still it.

It was during my parents third year of marriage and Dad's first season with the Cannons, that two events which would change my life occurred. One was birth, which I guess technically didn't change my life as before my birth, I didn't have a life to change. The other event was Harry Potter escaping from Azkaban.

Considering that Harry escaped Azkaban before my birth, I should probably tell about that first. However, that event is tied to my own birth, and so I must tell the story the way I was told it.

About 2 months into Dad's second season with the Cannons, the first string keeper went down with a broken leg. Because bludgers in professional Quidditch are enchanted so that they actually do lasting damage- makes the game more interesting, according to the league, and more importantly, the odds makers- the first string keeper was out for the rest of the season, giving Dad his chance. Mum and Dad decided to go out for a celebratory dinner. They didn't have a great deal of wine, but they were a young couple in love, and well... to make a person, one's parents must do things which are so absolutely revolting for one to think about one's parents that I shall not print them here. Suffice to say that pretty soon, my Mum was making constant early morning visits to the porcelain god.

Mum and Dad were excited to be having a kid, even if they were pretty young. They had always wanted children, although not too many- Mum did not want the same life as Nana, as sweet as that old lady is. Also, my conception couldn't have come at a better time- Mum was growing horribly bored of her job advancing the theory of just about everything, but never seeing any practical application. She wanted to write- maybe do something with history. Or charms. Or transfiguration. Or potions. Or arthimancy. Or defense. If there is one thing you can say about my mother, she never limits her options.

And, for my mum, maternity leave was the perfect time to do this. Yes, even while I was in the womb, my mother was working... Personally, I think she needs an intervention about that, but Dad won't allow it. He simply shakes his, smiles slightly, and says, "That's just Mione."

I won't go into the gory details of my mother carrying me in the womb, mainly because I've never been told them. It's probably just as well- if I had been told of every case of morning sickness or swollen feet, I would probably never want to get pregnant. And getting pregnant is the hobby of every Weasley female.

However, there is one detail that is important. You see, at around six months, my parents were having a bit of a problem- they couldn't think of a godparent for me. And, as anyone who's seen the muggle movie knows, having the correct godfather can be the difference between a nice job as a hit person or getting a horses head stuffed in your bed.

There first choice had, of course, been their mutual friend Harry Potter. However, there was the slight issue involving the fact that he was in prison. So, my mum and dad were in a pickle. Harry had been their best friend, and it was just around my birth that they began to realize that it was to the exclusion of others. Oh sure, Dad was pretty good friends with all of dorm mates, and knew them much better than Harry ever did. But none of them were really Godfather material at the time. Seamus was a party animal, far too sloshed most of the time to really be a proper Godfather. Neville had just taken over as the Herbology at Hogwarts, even though he was just turning 20 that year. Herbolgy teachers had a history of lasting, and they didn't want for me to have to deal with any claims of bias...which is odd that they felt that way, considering that once I started schooling, my Mother decided to become the Proffessor of History at Hogwarts(believe me, it is far, far more horrible than it sounds). But that is a story for another time.

It took a while, but they eventually came to a decision: My godmother would be Ginny Weasley, and I wouldn't have a godfather. At least officially. Unofficially, my godfather would be Harry Potter, even if he was in Azkaban on a quadruple life sentence. They knew that Azkaban prisoners received mail once a year, on their birthdays. Harry's birthday fell before my due date, so they decided to send him a letter telling him of his new position.

'_The worst that can happen,'_ they must have thought_, 'is that he gets cheered up a bit.'_

Now, I don't know much. Oh sure, I get good grades, but unlike Mum, I've always thought of experience as the ultimate measure of knowledge. But I do know this: One never, ever tempts fate when talking about my godfather. The man is a walking, talking example of Murphy's Law.

Of course, in this case, for once it wasn't fate that screwed with Harry. It was Harry that screwed with fate.

Sirius Black had been a very strong influence upon my godfather, and thus, he felt the need to be a strong influence. His reasoning was that if, god forbid, something ever happened to my parents, he wanted to be able to raise me, so that I wouldn't have to go live with "horrible muggles" (his words, not mine).

On August 1st, 2000, Azkaban prison, supposedly the most secure prison in the world, experienced its second ever successful breakout. This time, the inmate who escaped did not do it in a tricky manner, by turning into an animal or some other such thing. Why would he need to? The inmate was Harry Potter. He simply waved his hand, and the door to his cell flew backwards into the wall. The dementors ran _from_ him- he was one of the few they have ever feared, and with good reason. For his experiences, filled with tragedy as they are, have caused him to appreciate the little pleasures in life all the more. And if the memory of walking on the grass barefoot can allow him to conjure a corporeal Patronous... well, what is a poor Dementor to do?

He easily reach the shore of the island- there are almost no guards inside of the prison, because who would want to work around dementors for an extended period of time? Although, from what I've heard, the guards that do work there are sadistic bastards, taking out the sadness and anger that they feel working in such close proximity with such dark creatures on the inmates. However, most of them aren't that skilled- they're a bit like the Wizarding World's equivalent of shopping mall security guards. None of them were skilled enough to take on Harry Potter. And although they work at Azkaban, none of them were stupid enough either.

Now, Azkaban has some of the harshest anti-Apparation wards in the world. In fact, the only place harder to apparate into or out from in the United Kingdom is Hogwarts. By every law of magic, apparating away from Azkaban is against the rules. But as Severus Snape has often said, Harry Potter has a distinct lack of regard for the rules. And, so it was, with a resounding **_POP!_** That Harry Potter left the prison of Azkaban forever.

It was several months before my parents saw Harry again. In fact, the next time they saw him was on the day of my birth. Mum, for whatever reason, had decided on a home birth, I guess as a way to christen the new cottage they had purchased for our family.

Mum has described my birth as being far less painful than she had expected, and far more painful than she had hoped. Even with magic, it seems, childbirth is a bitch.

My father, of course, was no help. Oh, he didn't get in the way or anything, but he would have if the Healer who had flooed over from St. Mungo's hadn't shoved him out the door.

On the other hand, this did allow my father to be the first to see a rather unusual event, which does not commonly occur at births: the return of a convicted felon.

For, as my father paced in the living room, which still had couches under plastic(Mum's idea, as Dad thought it was useless considering how all it took was a simple Stain Guard charm), Harry Potter apparated in, with a rather quiet pop.

He was instantly greeted with shock, followed by a hug, from my father. And, somehow, his timing was impeccable- I had just been delivered, and the healer, luckily, had decided to leave through the floo in the bedroom to get some potions.

Well, let's just say that my Mum was a bit surprised, after calling her husband in(who, I might add, she cursed throughout the entire delivery process), only to have the head of her best friend pop through the door. Had she been able to hug him, she would have, but she instead settled for letting him be the third person ever(right after the healer and Mum) to hold me as a babe. To this day, Dad says that this is the reason why I take stupid and unnecessary risks.

Harry, of course, couldn't stay long. The healer just had to flu back in at that moment, and so Harry had to make a quick exit- a skill he would become far more adept at in later years. By the time the aurors arrived, all they found was a very angry new mother- and, as every auror knows, new mothers and pregnant women were the only creatures Alastor Moody ever feared.

Yes, Harry had managed to escape. But he would return, many times. And he would always be there when it mattered. When I took my first steps, Harry was there holding the camera (because Mum was too excited and Dad can't make heads or tails of anything muggle). When I needed someone to assure me there were no monsters under the bed, Harry was there. When I scraped my knee while riding my bike, Harry made funny faces at me to ease the pain while Mum dressed to the wound. When I got into Hogwarts, Harry was there to hug me, and to present me with the Maurader's Map (thank god mum doesn't know). When I got made a prefect in my fifth year, it was Harry who introduced me to the joys of firewhiskey, and who was kind enough to give me a hangover potion the next morning before Mum found out. And, when my first boyfriend broke up with me, Harry was the one who I wrote to first. He assured me that the boy was a git, and that I shouldn't cry over him, or else Harry would have to hurt this "little wanker who broke my Jenny's heart."

This is, of course, is not to say that Harry was a parent to me because my own parents didn't do there job. No, they did there job, and incredibly well, I might add. Oh, we've had our differences and spats(for every child is filled with these little falling outs with authority figures- children who don't have these end up rebelling in adulthood, rather than childhood. And rebelling in adulthood often leads to "unexplained disappearances" courtesy of your local neighborhood intelligence agencies) , but they've also done everything one can ask of their parents- especially when you realize how in the dark your own parents often are.

However, even from a young age, I knew that Harry was going out of his way to see me, and that it was dangerous for him. My parents did their best to keep me in the dark, but small children have an incredible perception about events that we sadly lose as we become adults. And I was very grateful for it.

But love is a far different beast. Oh, I loved Harry for years, but in a familial sense. And this is a story of romantic love.

So, how did it all happen? How did Harry and I get together (or do we get together?)? Well, there's a reason this is the prologue, silly!

But if you were wondering how it began, how I first realized that I love Harry Potter- well, that's easy.

It was Easter Break of my Sixth Year. It was Easter day, actually. We had gone to church, mainly because Mum still insists that we go to appease Grana and Pappy. But as soon as we got home, I, being the tom boy that I am, grabbed my broom and went to go practice. We had a match against Slytherin the week after we got back, and Gyfindor-Slytheirn is the biggest sports rivalry in all of Britain's Wizarding World. And, as one of Gryfindor's better chasers, I had to practice.

There's a large clearing in the woods behind our house- it's a ways in and you won't find it unless you know where to look. I've loved it ever since I've found it when I was 7- still scraping my knees on tree trunks while exploring the world around me. It's a place that I can call my own- away from my parents and the world. Ever since I found it, it's been my place to think, to cry when I didn't want anyone to see me, to pretend I'm marrying my current crush, and, of course, to fly.

I had been flying there for an hour when suddenly, a storm blew in. Of course, I am Gryfindor, and doing the smart thing and landing simply isn't in our nature. No, instead, I decided that this would be the perfect time to practice diving for the Quaffle(I've had a practice one since I made the team in my 3rd year). However, during my third dive, I paid the piper. A gust rose up, and it knocked my tail out from under me. I began to fall to the hard, unforgiving earth.

I was sure that I had met my end. I was sure that I was going to die here, and by the time my body was found, I would be too decomposed to bury. I do have a morbid thought pattern, don't I?

I closed my eyes, awaiting the ground's cool embrace. But instead, I found myself in a warm, cradling embrace.

I opened my eyes, puzzled. I didn't know God gave you a hug when you got to heaven. However, when I opened my eyes, I didn't see any pearly gates. Instead, I saw green eyes, black hair, and a smiling face.

"Next time, leave the life threatening stuff to us trained professionals."

He proceeded to carry me back to my house, and put me to bed. My parents were in bed by the time we got back, and Harry tucked me. He brushed a kiss on my forehead, smiled, and left. In an instant, the lack of adrenaline got to me, and I was asleep.

The next morning, Harry had left. Mum and Dad never even knew that he had visited. But laying at the foot of my bed was a brand new _Fireball_ broom.

And, it was then that I knew that I would love Harold James Potter until the day I died.


	2. Chapter the First

A/N: Yeah, funny story. I'm a moron. If Chapter 1's end confused you, that's because those were ideas for other chapters. So, if you read it, pretend in never happened. Becuase it didn't, now did it? Anyway, next Chapter should be up soon, and I won't do that ever again hopefully.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Otherwise, I'd be rich.

Chapter the First  


He came walking up the front driveway about midmorning. Harry always walks the same way: stiffly and slowly, as if he has something to hide. I think he may have a slight limp, but if he does, he hides it incredibly. I sometimes wonder why he feels the need to hide it around us... I mean, we're like, his family practically... Then again, Harry has always had this problem showing any kind of weakness or need, according to Dad. Dad told me once how Harry used to put up silencing charms around his bed, back when they were at Hogwarts, so that no one would hear his screams when he had nightmares, especially Dad.

I don't like it when Dad tells me these things about Harry- not because I don't want to know about him, but because I feel so sorry for him. You have to understand, Harry is the nicest guy you'll ever meet, and yet you hear about all the shit that he's been through, and you _know_ that the man deserves better than the hand that life dealt him. It's also painful to hear this stuff because Harry still doesn't open up to people- not really, anyway. I don't think I've ever seen Harry cry, or scream, or even laugh... I mean, he laughs a lot when he comes over, but it's not _real _laughter. There's always something in his eyes when he laughs, something haunted that seems to be holding him back from true joy.

Mum keeps poking him to go to a therapist or something, because she says he's heading for a nervous breakdown. Mum is rarely wrong.

I was reading _Witch Weekly_, which had a vapid article on the new hot, young(the only words that _Witch Weekly_ needed to hear) Seeker prospect from Durmstrang, Sven Harkina, when I looked up and saw Harry ambling down the walk towards me. I dropped the magazine and, not bothering with shoes, ran to him, jumping into a hug.

Harry hugged me back with those strong arms of his, and swung me around a few times. As he swung me, I buried my face in the crook between his shoulder and his neck, and inhaled deeply. He had the most amazing, intoxicating smell- like grass after a hard summer rain- and it always brought me comfort whenever he gave me a hug. I could have stayed that way forever, held in Harry's arms, my head resting on his shoulder, but all too soon I found myself being put down on the grass, the dew covered blades tickling my bare feet.

Harry looked at me with a grin that stretched that stretched ear to ear.

"Hey kiddo," he said, his deep, gruff baritone filled with amusement, as he rumpled my hair. He always called me kiddo, though its meaning had changed over the years. When I was little, it was legitimately true. When I turned twelve, and wanted everyone to think I was grown up, he had done it to tease me- which had annoyed me to no end. Now, he used it out of habit, and there was always a hint of nostalgia in his voice, like he was sad that I had finally grown up. Harry has always had this thing about childhood which I will never understand. He tells me that five is the greatest age to be, which is in sharp contrast to Mum and Dad (who feel the need to keep reminding me that these are my best years). I think he's a bloody loon, but he's _my _bloody loon. Or rather, he will be.

"Hello, earth to Jen Weasley, your Godfather is on the line two, he wants to know how you've been."

I snapped back to reality, and blushed crimson. Damn Weasley genes.

"Oh...um...I've been good. Still wish summer wasn't over. God, it's bad enough that Mum's a Professor, but now that I have NEWTs coming up... ehehehe," I shuddered, and Harry chuckled.

"You seem to forget, I knew you mother when _she _took the NEWTs. _That_, my dear girl, was a traumatic experience. Ever been woken up at midnight for a study session?"

I shook my head, and Harry continued with his story, "Well, I have. About a month before NEWTs began, your mother began waking me up at midnight, and dragging me down to the common room to study because, well, with only a month to go, we couldn't _waste_ any time doing something as frivolous as _sleeping_. That went on for about two weeks before finally, your father heard about it, and gave her one of those long lectures he likes to give when he thinks Hermoine is working too hard."

"Well, thanks a lot for that, Harry," I quipped sarcastically, "That really reassures me about having to spend a year with mum."

"Oh... I wouldn't worry too much. Your dad and I have an amazing knack for corrupting your mother, or getting her to calm down, especially when it comes to you."

He was right, and I knew it. Mum had been adamantly against me even getting near a broom until Harry had pulled her aside. I'm not sure what he said, but by the end of it, I was soaring on Harry's old Firebolt. I've never let my head leave the clouds since.

We walked toward the house, chatting amiably. I found out that he had been in Cairo, and that he really hated the Egyptian monetary system. I nodded sincerely, pretending to know what he was talking about. As we approached the steps, I eyed Harry's large leather duffle.

"You might want to shrink that," I reminded him, "You know how Mum gets about that thing."

Harry had had that duffel ever since he had been on the run. In it were all of his worldly possessions, save a few which he kept at our house, and a few which were in his vault at Gringotts of Switzerland. Mum always said that it reeked to high heaven, and that Harry should really buy another one, because it wasn't as if he didn't have the money.

Personally, I had always loved Harry's bag, as ratty as it was (and that thing was rattier than a cheap motel). When I was little, I used to crawl in there, hoping he would take me with him. In it, I could smell the street markets of Deli, the cafes of Paris, the bath houses of Tokyo, and the leather soles of a thousand stock brokers treading over a New York City street. To me, the smell of that bag was refined and worldly, filled with a never ending wanderlust. And, as I had become a teenager, that smell had only become more appealing. If my dream of Harry and I settling down ever became a reality (and I was ready to wring every drop of sweat from my body to have it become such a thing), a piece of that bag would sit in a place of honor on the mantle.

He nodded at my comment, and tossed his bag up in the air. It shrunk in midair, and he caught the now palm sized item in one hand. With a cheeky grin, he stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. I really needed to get him to teach me wandless magic, though I hear its ruddy difficult. Harry, of course, is used to it by know- he hasn't used his wand in seven-teen years. Though it wasn't snapped (it's actually in the attic of the Burrow), Harry can't use it. Apparently, a wand leaves an easily traceable magically signature, if you're powerful, that is. And dear god is Harry powerful. I've only seen it once first hand, and that was back in Third Year. I really don't like to talk about it... I still have nightmares sometimes. All of those poor Muggles...

Harry was looking at me funnily, and teased with that adorable, wry, sarcastic smile of his, "Jenn, I know my absolute, godlike power is enough to make a mere mortal such as yourself stand awed in shock, but really, you must get used to it. You're almost seventeen."

"I won't be seventeen until October, whereas you'll be 37 in what... a week, old man?" I said in the dead serious voice that Dad thinks I get from Mum. The smile on my face, however, showed the tone for the farce it was.

"Old? Me? I am not old, young lady. I am _dignified_, and _refined_."

"Oh, so you wouldn't mind me, say, blasting _The Black Irish_?" _The Black Irish _were the new 'in' band, and were rather heavy on the metal. Harry hated them with a burning passion.

"You won't be blasting that confounded racket while I'm in the house, ya scallywag!" Harry rebuked his voice a perfect imitation of a true codger. By this time, we had reached the kitchen, and Harry turned to me, an inquiring look on his face, "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm famished, so I'm making breakfast. Have you eaten?"

My stomach growled in response, but I hastily cut it off, announcing, "No, but I'm good. Dad had to go out early for an interview, and I didn't want to take my chances with Mum's cooking. I'm feeling way too lazy to cook, so I'd thought I just get some cold cereal..."

"Cold Cereal! For a growing young girl? Your grandmother would skin both of us alive if she were to hear you say that. No, I shan't hear of it. You shall have a proper breakfast, no ifs, ands, or buts!" Harry exclaimed, bursting with excitement(how he is that awake in the mornings, I shall never understand).He always liked to cook for me which, if _Witch Weekly _is to be believed (and the opinion there is varied- Aunt Ginny swears by it, while Mum considers it rubbish), is a sign that a bloke fancies you. Suddenly, I didn't feel quite so hungry, as a wave of butterflies filled my stomach.

Harry went to the refrigerator, and started getting out the ingredients: four eggs, and six strips of bacon. He took out a large frying pan, cracked open the eggs, and started cooking them in the over-easy style. That was another weird, endearing thing about Harry- he never cooked with magic, always preferring to do it the muggle way(and something cooked under the sweat of someone's brow tastes infinitely better than something cooked with a few waves of the hand and some fancy Latin words). He said he learned it while living with his aunt and uncle. He doesn't talk much about those two, and whenever he does, he gets this far off look, like he's looking into a pensive. I've learned not to ask much when he gets that look.

Of course, his reluctance to talk about his past is one of my pet peeves with him. Oh, he's told me loads about Hogwarts, no dirty detail edited out. And by everything, I mean everything. I even keep my emergency stock of firewhiskey in the Shrieking Shack, in case Mum ever finds my cache hidden in the secret passage behind the portrait of St. Jude on the 6th floor corridor. However, despite his eagerness to talk about Hogwarts, Harry refuses to talk about the first eleven years of his life, when he lived with his Aunt and Uncle. He also doesn't talk about his summers- except those that he didn't spend with his Aunt and Uncle. And he was always lecturing me about how happy he felt whenever he boarded the train to Hogwarts(usually, he does this in response to me complaining about school). I'm sorry, but any going back to any school, even Hogwarts, sucks. Harry wouldn't have been that happy without a reason. There's also some other information that I found out about Harry's Aunt and Uncle that I'm sure I'm not supposed to know. Once, I woke up at what must have been well past midnight, and started walking downstairs to get a glass of water. However, as I reached the landing right before the kitchen, I heard my Dad screaming in fury. I stopped, and, sitting on the stairs, began eavesdropping.

"Moine, are you insane?" That was definitely Dad- no one else could sound that pissed, or roar as loudly.

"I'm just saying dear, that it'd be a good house to hide in. It's not like _**they** _are living in there anymore." That was Mum, sounding meek and reasonable, like she did when she was pretty sure that she was wrong, but would never admit to it.

"Moine, he lived in that place with bars on his window! There are probably still blood stains in that cupboard! And you want to send Harry there? Aren't you the one who keeps saying that he's bound for a nervous breakdown?"

My twelve year old eyes had widened in shock at that, one thought running through my mind, "_Harry had bars on his window?"_

You must understand, I was twelve, and could not really fathom any home situation other than my own loving one. The thought of living with bars over ones window simply boggled my young mind.

I was snapped out of my reverie by Mum's shocked voice, "_Bloodstains?_"

A pause, during which Dad was probably nodding sadly.

"I'd forgotten you weren't there when we went to get him after Sirius died," Dad whispered in a sad, angry voice, which my sharp ears caught through the dead silence of the kitchen. "You didn't see. It...It wasn't good. You probably have the right to know the whole thing, and because Harry would never admit that it happened, even today, I had better tell. Okay, so, you remember how they sent some Order members to get Harry, so that he wouldn't go get all depressed and do something stupid after Sirius' death? Well, they let me come, because I knew the way around the house, just in case something bad happened. I remember having this really horrible feeling when I saw the house after we had portkeyed over. It was so... quiet... and peaceful. But the quiet was like the silence of death, Mione. I didn't notice then, but all the windows were shut..."

I quickly realized that this story was quickly going to go into realms far darker than my young mind should tread in, and scampered back upstairs.

Of course, it wasn't just his relatives that Harry refused to talk about. He also never talked about the war- even less than Mum and Dad. He kept saying that thousands didn't fight and die for me to be traumatized years later by an old man's ramblings.

That was the inherent contradiction of Harry- for a man who packed light and traveled light (that leather duffel was his only bag); he had more baggage than anyone I had ever met. Sometimes, I just wanted to hug the poor wretch, and let him sob into my arms, sob and sob until he let out all the pain that he foolishly felt obligated to carry on his shoulders. Sometimes, I wished I could be his rock.

Harry's tap to the shoulder startled me, and he looked down, his green eyes brimming with concern, "You feeling all right? The Jenn Weasley I know would have gossiped all during my cooking. It's not like you."

"Sorry...just thinking," I stammered out, as I blushed. Something about Weasley women and green eyes, according to Aunt Ginny.

"Oooo, has ickle Jenny got a boyfriend? You do realize that now I have to give him the over-protective male speech," Harry sighed out, with a bit of nostalgia. He must have gotten a lot of practice with Aunt Gin's boyfriends.

"No...it's not a boy," I stated, my blush deepening.

"Well, I didn't know you swung that way, but that's okay. I wouldn't have told Sirius if I had been gay either. So, who's the lucky gal?" Harry grinned, looking insufferably cheeky.

"_And insufferably snoggable_," my damn subconscious added.

However, even as I thought this, I was spluttering out a denial, "H...Har...Harry Potter! You are an insufferable prat!" My eyes quickly glanced around; looking for something to throw at him that wouldn't cause any permanent damage. Key word there being _permanent_.

Harry finally couldn't help it any more, and burst out laughing, wheezing, "Oh...oh...god...the look on your face! Oh...god...I wish I had...a camera...so priceless."

I harrumphed angrily, and shooting a glare (another wonderful ability that Mum had given me), I turned to my plate. The eggs lay near the top, their yokes looking like eyes. On the bottom, three pieces of bacon were arranged in a curve, and the entire thing looked like a smiley face. Oh god, the man had done it again.

"Harry, how, exactly, old are you?" I asked innocently, batting my eyelashes.

"Thirty-seven." He remarked distractedly, muttering quietly at _The Quibbler_, the most respectable newspaper in the wizarding world.

"Then why have you not outgrown smiley face bacon and eggs yet, for either you or me?"

Harry put the paper down, and sighed, then spoke with an exasperated note in his voice, "Jenn, as I've told you a thousand times, the smiley face cheers you up, allowing you to start your day off right. It's simple logic really."

"It's childish, and you know it," I retorted, annoyed by his childishness.

"Dear Merlin," Harry said, holding his hands up defensively, "No reason to get so testy. I'm sorry, god..."

He gave me a sad, puppy dog look with those green orbs of his, begging forgiveness. I, however, decided to let him suffer, as my fork viciously began assaulting the eggs. He was going to suffer through this meal in silence, if I had anything to say. Or, in this case, not to say.

Harry, however, had other plans.

"Oh, is someone being Ms. Grumpyface?" He teased, in a voice a normal person would only use on a five year old. "You see, you're just proving my point here Jenn- the lack of joy in the morning has warped your brain."

I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing, as he nodded sincerely. Sometimes, I really hate that man, with his devilish good looks, his wry wit and sarcasm, and his absolute selflessness. Damn him and his being the ideal boyfriend.


	3. Chapter the Second

**AN: See my profile for a rather sad explination of my lateness in this chapter**

**Disclaimer: I solemnly swear that I am up to no good. Oh, and I don't own Harry Potter. Other People do. I own Jenn though. She's mine. You steal her, I cut you up. _Que?

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_**Chapter the Second

Breakfast was a fun affair, where I got to fill Harry in on the latest gossip. With the Weasley family having grown into "world-domination levels" (as Uncle George... or was it Fred? put it) there was a lot to tell. Harry, for his part, informed me where he had been. Not having seen him since the Easter break, I listened with great attention as he told of holding down a job as a car mechanic in Egypt (he stopped by at Uncle Bill's, but didn't stay long). That lasted about two months, until a few Egyptian officials began poking around, based on an anonymous tip. Deciding to get out while the getting was good, Harry packed up and moved to Italy, where he served as a janitor for at a large villa right at the foot of the Alps. A few days back, he had up and left his job, and come back to England to be with the nearest thing he has to family for his birthday.

"Thirty seven, Jenn. Thirty bloody seven. Can you believe it? I mean... god, it's just so _old_. Next thing you know I'll be pulling my pants up to my eyebrows and yelling at children to get off my lawn."

"Oh come on, it's not that old. Besides, you're still young at heart," I replied, a hint of worry in my voice. Frankly, I could care less about age where Harry was concerned, but if he thought he was old, then it would make seducing him far harder. The things one does to jump their Godfather's bones.

Okay, I just realized how wrong that sounded. I resolve never to write a sentence that _disgusting_. I am truly and deeply sorry.

"'Young at heart' is a nice way of saying that a person isn't just over the hill- they've fallen off the cliff. It's also a euphemism."

"Not this lecture again..." I sighed mournfully. Harry had a personal vendetta against euphemisms

"Euphemisms, Jenn, are ways to obscure the truth. Sometimes, they exist out of sheer politeness- which would be fine, if it was genuine politeness. However, they are mostly used in a sense of faux politeness- one uses them not to spare someone's feelings, but to look better. And euphemisms also have a dark side. They are ways to lie- for people to hide the truth. It's not a hanging, it's a 'state sponsored execution'. It's not a prison- not, it's a 'detention center'. It's not hell- it's 'Azkaban'. Jenn..."

I tuned out around that point. I've heard the lecture a million times. Harry had always had a bad relationship with the press, and with public relations people- the two groups whose job it was to invent euphemisms. To, as Harry described it, put a blond wig on a fat, oafish pig.

I let him continue on his rant for about 3 minutes. By then, he was panting, gasping for breath, his face red and a thin sheen of sweat beginning to break out on his forehead. His eyes blazed with passion.

I wanted to kiss him senseless. Right there, right then. Shut him up with a good, long, tongue in man, hands roaming under his shirt, turn me into a puddle of gook full frontal snog. It took all my restraint not to, and instead to speak.

"Harry... you're sounding like Mum and House Elves..."

Harry, catching his breath, nodded. "You're... right Jenn. Quite right. Sorry. I remember that quite well- your Dad always used to say that whenever your Mum got off on one of her long, political ramblings that he just wanted to snog the living daylights out of her. It always worked too."

"Are you suggesting I should have tried that?" I said, my eyes glinting mischievously. _Be carefully what you wish for, Harry._

"What can I say Jenn? I am an eminently eligible bachelor- women love me. I don't see why you should be any different," He said, with those damn green eyes filled with mirth. I hate him, I hate him, I want to be held in his arms every night.

I wanted to take him up on his offer. Oh, how sweet it would be. But I wouldn't- not now. Some day, though. Some glorious day. Tossing my napkin at him, I replied, "In your dreams, old man."

"I see my lecture had some success."

God needs to smite that man.

By this time, breakfast was over, and Harry collected the plates and brought them over to the sink. Tuning the radio until he found some jazz (Harry loves jazz), he began to wash the dishes, singing along to Ray Charles, something about unchaining his heart. I'm not quite sure where Harry got a taste for jazz- maybe some of the times he's gone across the pond to the States- but he loves it. It always seemed strange to me- I don't know, Harry just always seemed like the type to listen to hardcore punk, not soulful jazz.

"So, you never told me why your mum was out," He said, talking over his shoulder.

"Bloody party wanted her to make a speech- rally the troops or something like that. It's absolute bullocks!"

"Language Jenn! It's a good thing you're mother _isn't _here."

"Well, it is bullocks. It's seven months until elections, they haven't even gotten their candidate, she left them years ago, and yet they still come to her to save their sorry arses."

"Would you rather have no opposition to Fudge?"

He was right of course. The party, or, to use its proper name, The Magical Liberal Party (MLP), was founded by Mum quite accidentally. During the war, she was actually able to persuade a large number of people to join S.P.E.W., especially aurors who were tired of house elves disrupting raids or aiding Purebloods. Mum had continued leading S.P.E.W. after the war, but it was an informal group without much, if any, power.

It was Harry's arrest that changed that. When Harry was arrested, Mum was furious, and she wanted to find some way to get Fudge out of office, and get a more progressive candidate in. However, she quickly found that Fudge belonged to the Wizarding World's most liberal party- all the other ones wanted to slaughter all magical creatures and put women back in the kitchen. She quickly reformed S.P.E.W. into the MLP, and handed over the reigns of its leadership to Susan Bones, who followed her Aunt's footsteps into politics. The MLP had been a thorn in the side of just about every other political party ever since- although it was far from having control, or enough allies to call for a vote of no confidence. However, without them, I shudder to think some of the laws that would have been passed. They were the ones who defended everyone's rights- from magical creatures to convicted felons. The service they provided was invaluable.

Still...

"Just because they're a useful bunch of foolish, idealistic prats doesn't mean they need Mum. She just founded the Party- she never ran it. And she still hasn't helped me with my History homework. Says that I should figure it out myself," I whined. You see, my Mum is the Professor of History at Hogwarts. Don't ask about how Binns got kicked out- it involves the Weasley Twins, a "lady of the evening" from Cuba, and lot of vegetable oil. And having a mother as a professor is far worse than you can possibly imagine.

"Well, Mione never really was one for helping with homework. She never helps you until the last moment. So don't expect anything until at least August 31rst."

"I know... It's been this way ever since I started Hogwarts. I was just hoping that divine intervention would maybe kick in this year... Wait a second, now that you're here, maybe you could help me?"

"Jenn, no student who had Binns, except your mother, actually paid attention in that class. I only know about Voldermort on, and even that I only learned because I had to."

"Well, you're in luck. Last year of school is Modern Wizarding History," I didn't mention that it was what most students call "The Interesting Stuff." I love Harry, but he might tell it to Mom as a joke, and well... Mom has never taken my jokes well. Let's just say that there was one time when Uncle Fred and Uncle George let me test their new line of "Hair Care" products. Things happened that night that will never be repeated again.

"Well, I could help you... under one condition," he said with that sly grin on his face, which he uses only when he has something devious planned (utterly killing my hopes that the condition would be a long snogging session. It never is with the hot ones). "I'm going to need you to degnome the garden because otherwise, me and your dad will have to do it. And me old back just ain't what it used to be."

I never was quite sure where Harry picked up the word "ain't", except that he was a Southern butler at one time. It might have been there... but the family he served was British.

But I digress. Back onto the subject, I shot Harry a dirty look at the prospect of degnoming. Does anyone like doing that? At least Harry is old enough to legally use magic in degnoming. I'm stuck doing using the old fashioned method. Unenthused, I trooped out to begin my work.

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It took about an hour to degnome the garden. During the entire dirty, smelly, disgusting, "I will take at least three hours more than normal to get ready for any dates within the next year, and my boyfriends will never understand or appreciate this" task, Harry sat on our front porch, in a Hawaiian shirt and white knee-high shorts, sipping on a glass of lemonade while he watched me slave away. Did I mention that he has a really sick sense of humor? 

Sometimes we hate those we love the most. In fact, a more appropriate word would be despised. And wanted to kill.

However, after I was finally done with the horrible, dreadful, terrible, abominable, atrocious, lousy, dissatisfactory, and just really bad task, Harry did pour me some lemonade, while making a great show out of gripping his back.

He walked, hunched over, up the stairs with me to my room, and sat, clutching his back, old-person style, on my bed, while I walked over to my meticulously kept desk. Another habit inherited from Mum. Luckily, I got her brains and organizational skills, not her social skills.

I pulled out my fresh ink and best quill (if my writing isn't perfect Mum makes me rewrite the paper), grabbed a piece of parchment, and began.

The assignment was to write an essay on how Voldermort's rise changed the magical world in two of the following areas: Economic, Education, Social Class, Battlefield Tactics, Relations with Magical Creatures, Women's Rights, etc. Somehow, Mum managed to make a war boring.

"Why did shielding spells become more popular despite the killing curse? Well, I don't Hermione, maybe because you told me to, and if any of us didn't use it, you'd kill us." Harry mused sarcastically. I snorted out in very unladylike fashion, and got a funny look from Harry. Yeah. Rule #1 of dating your godfather: Don't snort when you laugh. In fact, that probably applies to dating boys in general.

* * *

By the time my terrible horrible, dreadful, terrible, abominable, atrocious, lousy, dissatisfactory, and just really bad essay was finished, it was around noon, and I heard a faint pop from the living room, meaning that Dad was home. It had to be Dad, because Mum always reasoned that if she had to go to London to make some speech to a party she didn't even head, at least she should enjoy herself there.

She was going to a spa. The wench.

After he nearly had a heart attack due to discovering Harry in his seat(Dad's oblivious like that. He sees Harry's bags in the living room, which Harry has had for ten years, and just never connects it to Harry. Whose bags does he think they are? Some boy who is debauching me? Wait... if those belong to Harry... I did not mean for that to come out like that. Really. For once in this narrative, I made a completely unintentional reference to Harry and I performing intimate acts). Of course, this also meant that Dad insisted on making lunch.

Yes, I realize you're thinking that anything Ron Weasley, Hall-of-Fame bound keeper, coach on the rise, all around manly man, cooks is going to turn to stone, but, um, just between us, he's a really brilliant cook. Marvelous even. Come on- did you really think Mum would have ever learned to cook?

I mean, she attempted to. But the problem is, Mum thought that cooking was easy, because it mostly required reading and then following directions. She thought it was the same as Potions. This was a completely wrong assumption, but somehow her first few dishes were great. However, once she found out that she didn't need to watch the stove every minute, she began to read while she cooked. Bad, bad, bad idea. Wretched really. Ranking somewhere just below New Coca Cola on the all-time bad ideas list. Dad still has burn scars on the back of his hands.

Dad, therefore, had to learn how to cook. It wasn't hard. Nana Weasley helped. And so did Aunt Ginny. Aunt Katie. Aunt Dorothy (long story about Fred's wife). Aunt Maria (Bill never could get along with Fleur, so instead he married some Spanish archeologist), and Uncle Howard(oh, come on. You thought Charlie was straight? Yes, he loves dragons. But it's also a profession with very few women. It wasn't a coincidence. Yes, he's a rugged, dragon loving man. Who loves other, rugged, dragon loving men).

Aunt Penelope, who is very good at ordering out, ended up taking Mum under her wing.

Dad decided to bring out the grill (which is very American, but Dad loves, because it's fast, easy, and fries things), and decided told me to go "Uh... do whatever, uh... you girls do," in the tactful way that only Dad can. I took it to mean that Dad wanted some alone time to talk "guy talk" with Harry.

'_Well, if they want to play it that way,'_ I thought, with an evil grin spreading over my face as I grabbed a trashy romance novel, and climbed up the stairs. Now, the flaw in the house's construction is that the walls are very thin in one place- between my walk-in closest (second floor), and the kitchen (first floor). Was it sneaky? Of course. But really, what woman hasn't done something at least slightly manipulative to get their man? It's not our fault that they are denser than brick walls.

"Mate, you didn't even really like that Isis woman," That was Dad's voice, attempting, unsuccessfully, to console Harry. But who was this Isis girl?

"I know Ron... I know. But it's just that... she, well she filled a void for a few years. I, well... yes, it was a mess. But you don't know what it's like to be near forty and alone Ron. You don't know what it's like when you're on the run, to find a woman, even a terrible woman, who accepts you, who comforts you for a time. You don't know what's it's like to run from the law because your love betrayed you. Yes, she may not have loved me... but, well, for a time, I thought I loved her." Harry sounded forlorn. I've never seen him like that. He just... well, he doesn't open up to people well. Mum and Dad, Aunt Ginny, Uncle Neville, sometimes even Uncles Fred and George. But he's very closed. I wish I knew why, but it probably has something to do with the muggles who raised him. Dad has sworn about the Dursley's- that was the muggles' name- ever since I was born.

It breaks my heart. It shouldn't be like that. Harry shouldn't be afraid to open up. And people shouldn't hurt him when he does open up.

Harry needs to stop feeling like he has to be perfect. You'd think he'd be able to open up around Mum and Dad- they've known him for years, but he doesn't. He still won't talk about some things- things in the war, things in his childhood. Harry doesn't seem to understand that you can't go around carrying as much emotional baggage as he does. Eventually, you collapse under its weight.

He needs to be able to, well, mortal. But he doesn't. And he can't. He's Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The Man Who Fought. He's been looked on to be something more than human for so long, he's started to believe it. He's started to believe that he isn't allowed to have problems, sorrows, pain, or tears. He's not aloud to open up.

What he really needs is someone, anyone, to love him. To be his rock, to be his shoulder to cry on.

Maybe one day, I could be that person for Harry.

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**AN: New chapters shall be coming soon, to make up for my delay. I am truly sorry about it.**

Also, if you read and don't review, I'll kill a kitten. A really cute kitten. So, anyone who doesn't review is a terrible kitten hating person.  



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